


A Town Called Joy

by marginalia_device



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Christmas, Christmas!, Christmas!!!, M/M, a stocking full of tropes, and a partridge in a pear tree, hallmark movie magic, strong language and mild peril, this is pure self-indulgence under the guise of a christmas present, two clueless eejits, with daft scenes throughout
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:22:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28223823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marginalia_device/pseuds/marginalia_device
Summary: What Aziraphale and Crowley should have realised was that once they packed their suitcases, they were no longer governed by the whims of Heaven and Hell, but by the Law of Holidays— altogether more powerful and more malicious, and utterly indifferent to where one falls on an alignment chart.Several months into retirement, Aziraphale and Crowley attempt to drive Route 66.They really, really should have checked the calendar.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 21





	A Town Called Joy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mortifyingideal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mortifyingideal/gifts).



> So! This is my Christmas present for Mort, best pal and dance partner for noted work of nonsense, Loosely Ballroom. Mate, I can't tell you how weird it was to write and edit this without you. Whither the camaraderie? Whither the jokes? Whither the strains of 90s pop hits as I try to figure out how to format this damned thing myself? 
> 
> I'm posting a chapter a day in the lead-up to Christmas, with the last chapter (hopefully) going up either Christmas Day or Boxing Day, depending on how knackered I am. This is pure tinsel, which means nothing terrible is going to happen other than a healthy sprinkling of rom-com embarrassment. 
> 
> A Hopeful Christmas and a Brave New Year, Mort. Fair to say that I wouldn't know the true reason for the season* without you.

If there is a lesson to be learned from this tale, it is that many of the things that seem ineffable, when you understand the chain of cause and effect, turn out to be very effable indeed.

If you had asked Aziraphale and Crowley how they ended up where they did on the first of December, one year after the Apocaloopsie-daisy-never-mind, they would each have glanced meaningfully upwards, and shook their heads— Crowley, perhaps, with a few choice words for their Creator. While it can’t be ruled out that the Almighty had a hand in events (it can never be _completely_ ruled out), it can really be put down to a snowballing of small mistakes; bureaucratic incompetence, general incompetence, bespoke incompetence, over-reliance on technology, poor time-keeping, short-staffing, short tempers and bad in-flight meals. Individual moments, such as Aziraphale taking twenty minutes too long in the duty free, or Crowley getting a particularly suspicious or perhaps particularly psychic TSA agent, shouldn’t really have altered their intended course too much. But when snow falls, it does not fall in individual flakes; and when inconveniences occur, they come in flurries. Bit by bit, their 8am flight became a 12pm one, their leisurely stroll to the First Class Lounge became a sprint to the wrong gate, and their five-star hotel in Chicago, Illinois became an irate phone call to a Holiday Inn. 

In Oregon. 

What Aziraphale and Crowley should have realised was that once they packed their suitcases, they were no longer governed by the whims of Heaven and Hell, but by the Law of Holidays— altogether more powerful and more malicious, and utterly indifferent to where one falls on an alignment chart. But they did not realise, and they did not take precautions, and what this meant, what _all of this_ accumulation meant, was this: 

Several hours into the state of Oregon, the Bentley shuddered to a stop, and Crowley swore under his breath. 

* * *

Months earlier, tipsily planning their new retirement, the two of them had gone wild with a world map and a sheaf of pins. 

“I’ve never been. To Bangladesh,” said Crowley, jabbing a pin into Dhaka.

“Nor me,” said Aziraphale. He had his spare pins in his mouth like a Georgian tailor and was standing on his tiptoes, attempting to stick one in Finland. 

“You’ve been up Scandinavia, surely,” said Crowley.

Aziraphale put his hands on his hips, sleeves rolled up and tie undone. He went to take a drink but forgot about the pins, nearly swallowing them. Crowley felt helpless with affection. “Not since Finland became Finland,” he clarified. “I’m going by country, state or city. Not, er, landmass.”

“Bugger,” said Crowley. “In that case, Czech Republic. Was Bohemia last time.”

“Dubai,” said Aziraphale.

“Ugh, you’d _hate_ Dubai. Leave that one off.”

“I’m sure I’d love it,” said Aziraphale firmly. “And Florida.”

“For the last time, angel, you will absolutely, definitely, _definitively_ loathe Florida.”

“I should like to see…” Aziraphale struggled for a moment, “…the swamps.”

“There are nicer swamps.” Crowley shook his head, and eyed the United States. “You know what I’ve never done? Driven Route 66.”

He could feel Aziraphale’s surprise. He didn’t blame him—there was just something about Crowley, like, _Yep, there’s old Anthony J. Owns more than three pairs of leather trousers, snogged 2.5 Bonds, has driven Route 66._

“Just never got around to it,” he shrugged. “The States got a bit too hot for me in the Sixties, anyway, and I only went over there for work. Always fancied it, though. Big, open sky. Road stretching into nothing. Just you and a car and a road.” Aziraphale was still Looking at him. “I meant me,” he clarified. “You meaning the objective you. Not you, Aziraphale, specifically. Except— I mean, the idea is to go on holiday together, right? So. You’d be with me. Anyway.” He made a show of squinting into the bottom of his glass, and made a face to communicate his confusion at the wine being gone, and his lack of responsibility for whatever just came out of his mouth. 

“Well, we shall have to move that to the top of the list,” said Aziraphale warmly, and Crowley _did_ feel warmed, right through.

“Besides,” said Aziraphale, turning back to the map, “if we just keep going, I’m sure we’ll end up in Florida.”

* * *

In retrospect, Crowley should have paid more attention to that comment. Some hours ago, he’d handed the angel a road atlas, and Crowley had a sneaking suspicion that it had been their undoing. Nothing appeared to be wrong with the Bentley that he could see. Its petrol gauge still showed full, as it had for almost a century. There were no punctures in any of the wheels, and none of its innards looked disturbed— granted, Crowley didn’t know much about cars, but as far as he could tell this one was still in good nick. As expected, since she’d been fully refurbished by an omnipotent tween not six months ago. 

“Maybe something went awry when you— when we miracled it here,” suggested Aziraphale, head stuck out of the window.

Crowley bit his tongue. Aziraphale hadn’t wanted to bring the car. They had even gone so far as to rent an American one— the bloke at Hertz had been surprised to hand over the keys for a Toyota Camry, only to find it had become a 1920s Bentley. Not as surprised, however, as the Toyota Camry, which suddenly found itself parked illegally on a street in Mayfair.

But Crowley couldn’t have left it. Driving in any car other than the Bentley felt like infidelity. He patted its hood, and the engine ticked apologetically.

“There’s nothing wrong with the car,” he said firmly. “The Bentley survived a literal wall of hellfire. She’s not going to be done in by some poxy engine problem. Are you,” he said to the car, and it ticked louder in agreement. Aziraphale snorted, because he just didn’t understand the deep bond between a man and his machine.

“I suppose we’ll have to… call a tow?” Aziraphale frowned at this very foreign concept. Crowley got out his mobile. He didn’t have 5G, here. Or 4G. Or any G, not even when he concentrated very hard.

“Angel, whereabouts are we?”

“Hm? Oh, we’re in Oregon.”

“I know that,” said Crowley, testily. “I know that because it’s about as far from Illinois as you can go without getting your feet wet.” Their plan to start in Chicago and follow Route 66 to LA was out the window. Given the circumstances, they had reversed their journey; the plan was now to drive down to LA and start there. “I mean what bit of Oregon? We’re still heading South, right?”

Aziraphale shifted. “Yes, we’re still heading South.”

Crowley stared at him. It was cold, outside the car. 

“I don’t know the precise location,” Aziraphale added, “but I am confident that although we’re still in Oregon, we are in a _more southerly_ part of Oregon.”

Crowley continued to stare. He stamped his feet to coax back some of the warmth.

“I have never driven in my life, Crowley!” Aziraphale finally snapped, throwing up his hands. “Why would you think I’d be able to navigate using a _road atlas_ , of all things—”

“So what the H— what on _Earth_ have you been doing for the past five hours?!”

“I’ve been telling the road to take us South!”

“You’ve been—” Crowley closed his eyes. “Sorry, right. Putting aside, for a minute, how bloody wasteful that is—” Aziraphale opened his mouth to protest, but Crowley waved him off— “you realise that even if I could call the, the American AA— AAA, whatever— I wouldn’t be able to tell them where to pick us up, other than _“side of a road, Oregon”_.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, folding his hands over his stomach. “Bugger.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, as Crowley alternated between sweetly asking the Bentley to start and not-so sweetly ordering his phone to find a bloody signal. The last petrol station he’d seen was an hour behind them, and at the speed they’d been going that was roughly… a shitload of miles away. Give or take. His irritation finally began to give way to worry. If he couldn’t get the car started, and couldn’t get his phone to work, he’d have to _walk_. 

“Aha!” said Aziraphale suddenly, making him jump. “The radio! If there’s a local station out here, we should be able to get a vague idea of the nearest township.” 

He began to fiddle with the stereo. To their surprise, what came out of the Bentley’s cassette player was the voice of Elton John, boldly adjuring them to _eat-drink-and-BE-merry_. This was confusing for a few reasons. Though the empty cassette case said _The Best of Tchaikovsky_ , the tape itself had insisted on being _The Best of Queen_ back in London, and now that they were trundling through the good old US of A it had become convinced, for the past hundred miles, that it was _actually_ _THE BEST OF THE BEST DRIVING ANTHEMS… EVER!!!_ Elton shouldn’t really have gotten a look in. Crowley felt something cold and oily settle in his gut. 

“Tell me that’s the radio,” he said.

“No, it’s definitely our cassette,” said Aziraphale, pressing more buttons than he was strictly allowed to on the Bentley’s sound system. “How odd! Unless…oh!” His eyes turned round and shining. Delight began to bloom on his face. The cold and oily thing inside Crowley bubbled and popped.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, in a voice of barely-suppressed euphoria, “what date is it?”

“Thirtieth of November,” Crowley said firmly. He glared at the stereo. “It’s the thirtieth of November.”

The speaker crackled indecisively for a moment, before hurling Elton and his ambitious scansion back at him louder than ever. 

“No, it isn’t!” Aziraphale clapped his hands. “It’s the _first of December!_ Oh, Crowley, it’s—”

“DON’T say it—” 

“It’s _Christmas!_ ”

And Crowley should have checked the calendar, really, he should have paid attention to time and how it rumbles forward instead of whisking them from one country to another for months and months, because finally his hubris had caught up with him. He should have turned on his heel in the airport the very second the wheel broke off his suitcase. But he hadn’t. And now, Aziraphale and Crowley were trapped between two immutable truths of the universe, twin vortexes of chaos: the Law of Holidays and the Law of Christmas.

Outside the Bentley, the sky darkened, and night crept up on the slightly-more-southerly part of Oregon. 

* * * 

“It’s getting cold,” said Aziraphale, some time later.

“No it isn’t,” said Crowley. He continued to fiddle with the radio. They had managed to find a station. Now they just had to wait for Dolly Parton to wrap up, and hope the host felt like chatting very specifically about his local area.

“It’s going to snow,” said Aziraphale.

“No it _isn’t_ ,” chattered Crowley.

The inside of the Bentley began to fog. Crowley busied himself by writing rude words in the condensation on the window. Aziraphale busied himself by methodically working through the pack of biscuits he found in the glove compartment. 

“I do hope we won’t have to spend the night in the car,” Aziraphale fretted. “I was very much looking forward to trying a _Motel_ .” He pronounced _Motel_ as if the word were French in origin. 

“Me too,” Crowley admitted. “I’ve always wanted to know if those coin-operated massage beds were a real thing.”

“Ooh, that sounds fun! We should take one for a spin.”

Crowley coughed. “Er. Sure.” Privately, he made a promise with himself that if he ever shared a bed with Aziraphale, it would _not_ be in a roadside motel that charged by the hour. To be honest, there was little danger. Not just because Aziraphale hadn’t meant it in a— in _that_ way, but because he felt certain that old _dear-Lord-are-these-sheets-polycotton_ would take one look at the inside of a motel room and pass out.

It was full dark outside, now. 

_“You’re listening to 105.9, smooth sounds to soothe the soul. Folks, Christmas is just around the corner, and we wanna get you into the spirit with two hours of non-stop Christmas tunes, ad-free. Looks like a storm’s comin’ on, so find yourself a service station, settle in and stay safe. First up, a classic for all of you out there on the road…”_

Crowley let his head thud against the wheel as Chris Rea’s _Drivin’ Home For Christmas_ started up. 

“We’re going to die here,” Crowley said calmly. “I’ll discorporate, and you’ll eat my remains, and when they finally dig you out you’ll be clutching my skull the way Tom Hanks clutched that volleyball in _Castaway_.”

“Don’t be grisly,” huffed Aziraphale. “You barely have enough meat on you for an _amuse bouche_. Besides, it’s a few hours in a car, and we’re somewhat powerful beings. We’ll hardly freeze to death.”

“Easy for you to say, you’re not part reptile.”

“You may be part reptile, but you’re a complete soupruss. Look, if you’re worried, you can turn into a snake and hide under my jumper.” With the look of a martyr, Aziraphale began unbuttoning his collar.

“That’s. Decent of you.” Crowley said, warily watching the movement of his fingers. He knew Aziraphale was only taking the situation so well because it was largely his fault. If it had been Crowley who had gotten them stranded in the middle of nowhere with a snowstorm en route, he’d never hear the end of it. He certainly wouldn’t be invited for a _cuddle_.

He was about to say some words to this effect when a white glow swept over the driver’s side window, illuminating his elegantly inscribed _COCKWOMBLE._ He could hear an engine idling outside, then a car door slamming, and then suddenly there was a sharp rap on the glass.

“Hey,” called a muffled voice. “You okay in there?”

Oh, thank G— someone. Crowley rubbed the fog from the window with his sleeve and locked eyes with a petite woman in a sheepskin jacket and a hat with earflaps. He scrambled to wind down the window, wincing at the blast of cold air.

“Hey!” she said again. Her eyes slid over to Aziraphale, who was doing up his shirt buttons, and back to Crowley. 

“We weren’t dogging,” Crowley blurted, and was relieved when the woman’s face didn’t change. Clearly that bit of slang hadn’t made it across the pond. “We’re, ah, stuck,” he elaborated. 

“Oh, I figured! You guys need some help?”

“Desperately,” Aziraphale put in. “A tow, ideally— and hello, by the way.”

The woman grinned. She had what Crowley internally called a pioneer face, freckled and handsome, with a couple of extra creases around her smile. “Well, you boys got lucky.” She jabbed a thumb over her shoulder, and Crowley noticed the red truck idling beside the Bentley, an old-fashioned hulk with a winch sticking out the back. 

“Oh! That _is_ lucky!” gasped Aziraphale. “I don’t suppose—”

“Don’t even need to ask,” she said. “What kind of person would I be if I left a stranger stranded, huh?” She stuck out a gloved hand. “I’m Holly.”

“Aziraphale.” Aziraphale reached over Crowley to grasp the woman’s hand, knocking against Crowley as he did so. He realised he was being subtly reminded of his manners.

“Crowley, hi,” he said. For some perverse reason, he then said, “You don’t have to give us a tow. We’ll be alright.” Aziraphale made an incredulous noise to his left. Crowley didn’t know why he was trying to talk them out of a rescue, really he didn’t, but something felt _off_ to him. It was causing an itch at the back of his throat and nose, like psychic pollen. What were the chances that a tow truck would come along at exactly the right time, when they hadn’t seen another car on the road for hours? Aziraphale would call it Providence, but Crowley called it a bit sus.

He didn’t have time to protest, though, because then Holly was hustling them out of the car, attaching a cable to the Bentley (Crowley winced) and shepherding them towards the cab of the truck. Crowley made to get back in the car, with a vague idea of guarding her, but Holly’s snort and Aziraphale’s exasperated look told him what they thought of that idea. He was bundled into the warm and pine-scented cab with all the grace of a sack of spuds, and handed a blanket and a candy cane like a child. He didn’t even _like_ candy canes. He watched the Bentley out of the rear window, dragging sadly behind them. Aziraphale and Holly chatted amiably, instant _buddies,_ by the look of it. Crowley ground his teeth.

“So, British, huh?”

“We’re Londoners.” A neat little sidestep from Aziraphale, that. They weren’t British, despite appearances, but they certainly were Londoners. “We’re on holiday— or _vacation,_ as you say. Where are you from, Holly?”

“Just the next town over— a town called Joy. You’re gonna love it.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. He’d never liked the American tradition of just naming a town the first thing that popped into their heads. What happened to a good, honest name, like Oxford? It’s a ford, for oxen. Easy. Hull! They make ships in it. Great town name, Hull.

“We’re all gearing up for the festive season,” Holly went on. Christmas music jingled from the radio, one of those songs with a lot of bells that gave Crowley a headache. “Actually, the lights will be going on in a half hour or so.”

“Oh, how wonderful!”

“Yep. Whole town will be there. It’s tradition.” She grinned warmly, and her eyes met Crowley’s in the rearview. “Local businesses put out stalls, there’s a live band… you’re both welcome to come along, of course. Don’t matter if you don’t celebrate— it’s not a prayin’ affair, just hot chocolate, and gingerbread, and good cheer!”

“Thanks,” said Crowley flatly, “but we’ll be finding a mechanic and then getting out of your hair.”

“Well, you won’t have to look far.” She winked. “I’m right here. You can take a look around while I take a look at your gorgeous girl.” 

Crowley grunted. Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Don’t mind him,” he stage-whispered. “We do celebrate, or rather I do. Crowley just isn’t particularly _into_ Christmas,” he lowered his voice further, “he’s rather a humbug.”

“Not into Christmas?” Holly blinked. “Well, I’ll be. We’ve got ourselves a Grinch!” 

Crowley supposed that, if push came to shove, he could suck the candy cane into a point and use it as a weapon. 

“Yep,” he said, through gritted teeth. “Grinch, that’s me.” He didn’t have a problem with Christmas, per se. It was just— well, it would take too long to explain, and anyway, he didn’t feel like it. He shuffled down into the truck’s leather seats and pulled his sulk around him with the blanket.

“Well, trust me— you’ll find your Christmas spirit in Joy. No-one does Christmas like us. You’re gonna love it!”

“I’m sure,” he said, checking his phone again and pointedly ignoring the disapproval that radiated from Aziraphale. Still no signal. 

Holly’s grin stayed resolutely in place. “You’re gonna love it,” she repeated.

* * *

For half an hour, there had been nothing to look at. Ahead of them, all Aziraphale could see was the black stretch of road and the blurred edges of the fields beyond, growing ever-paler as the snow fell thick and fast. The roads in America were so straight, Aziraphale thought, that it never felt like you were really _getting_ anywhere. You could look out of a window and see a mountain, then look out of that same window three hours later and oh, there was that very same mountain, and all that had changed was the position of the sun and how peckish you were. It was like driving on a treadmill. He was just about to put this to Crowley when, as if in response, the scenery altered; one moment they were hurtling through the dark, the windscreen wipers batting away snowflakes like blown cotton, and the next, an entire town burst to life ahead of them. 

“There go the Christmas lights!” cried Holly. 

“Oh,” murmured Aziraphale softly. “Oh, how _lovely_.”

It seemed like every edge of every building was sketched out in colour and light. Aziraphale could make out houses, a main street, the bones of a church. In the centre of town was a warm, buttery glow where presumably the townspeople were gathered, and Aziraphale was suddenly reminded of other winters, in times darker than these, when faith and flame were the only things keeping the night at bay; times when a human’s first thought upon seeing Crowley’s eyes would have been _demon_ rather than _contact lenses._ He smiled, staring at the lights until they passed one of the large, hand-painted signs that were _de rigeur_ in certain shades of small-town America, a sign that in sunny reds and yellows welcomed them to _A Town Called Joy_ . Someone had hung a wreath over the _O_ in the town’s name.

As they crossed the town line, Aziraphale had to hold back a gasp. Driving into Joy was like being plunged into a warm, metaphysical bath. He was dizzy with the love imbuing this place, his tongue thick with it, his head swimming. It was a dim echo of what he’d felt in Tadfield last year, a sort of emotional resonance that was pinging his angelic parts like billy-o— but it wasn’t from an individual, it was collective, it was communal. He felt like a great big bell, ringing. 

Aziraphale turned to share the moment with Crowley.

“Look,” he almost slurred. He gestured out of the window. Crowley glanced at the lights, sniffed, and went back to his phone. Aziraphale quashed his sense of annoyance. Of course Crowley couldn’t feel it the way he could, he wasn’t built for it, but he could at least appreciate the town aesthetically. He’d been hoping that, during this trip, they could share— something. Crowley had wanted to drive this very long road, for some reason. Aziraphale had been happy to go along, to spend interminable hours in the passenger seat and whip out his _Bumper Book Of Road Trip Activities_ he’d bought for the occasion if they got bored. They had gotten off to a rotten start, yes, but they had miles and miles ahead of them, and what the De— what the _deuce_ was the point of driving all the way across America if you weren’t even taking the time to enjoy it?

The dizzy feeling faded. Aziraphale contented himself with watching the town slip by his window, noting the increasing numbers of people; adults in flannel and sheepskin and wool coats, children swamped by puffer jackets, babies with mittens on strings, everyone ruddy-cheeked or bright-eyed or both. Almost everyone was holding steaming cups of cider or cocoa. He sighed happily. It was like something off a Christmas card. Crowley sneezed explosively, and Aziraphale bit back a _bless you_ just in time.

They came to a stop on Main Street, when the crowd became too dense for the truck to move. The road ended in the town square, where an enormous Christmas tree held court, surrounded by stalls and vendors, string lights and outdoor heaters.

“You two should get out here,” said Holly. “Go join the party while I’m at the garage.”

Crowley tensed. Aziraphale knew he balked at leaving the Bentley in the hands of a stranger, but Holly only laughed, and punched him good-naturedly on the shoulder.

“Don’t be such a nervous nellie! We’re all family, here. I’ll take care of your car, and folks’ll take care of you— in fact, hold on, I think I see my wife—”

Holly rolled down her window, letting in music and laughter and the most extraordinary scent of baked goods. Aziraphale sniffed the air hopefully. 

“Al!” Holly called, heaving her entire upper half through the truck window and waving madly. “HEY, AL!”

A tall woman came towards them from behind a stall, wiping her hands on her apron. “Praise be,” she said wryly, “my wife has returned.” She had a rich, hoarse voice, a raised eyebrow, and a headband patterned with gingerbread men keeping back her braids. A gold wedding ring gleamed on a chain around her neck. “Sweetheart, I sent you out for ground almonds and you’ve brought me two men. As far as substitutions go, I don’t think that’s gonna cut it.”

Holly grinned, levering herself out even further. Al leaned in and kissed her, possibly to keep her from falling out the window. “I didn’t forget, don’t worry. I’ve a whole sack in the back. This is Aziraphale, and Crowley. I rescued them!”

“From?”

“Car trouble.”

“Ahh. Well, if that’s the car, no wonder it was giving you trouble.” Al cast a quick eye over the Bentley. “This time of year you gotta use snow chains. Lucky you boys aren’t in a ditch somewhere.”

Aziraphale, slightly tickled at being called “boys”, jumped in before Crowley could start hissing. “We’ll keep that in mind, thank you— and thank goodness Holly was there to be our knight in shining armour. She’s, ah, a swell gal!” Aziraphale had been dying to try out all the American slang he had learned, though for some reason Crowley hated it. He suspected this was because Crowley was, to quote, a ‘real jerk’.

Al chuckled, and her somewhat harried look softened. “She’s like that. At least you’re not another stray dog.” She reached into the back of the truck and hauled out a huge bag, one-armed. “The _lebkuchen_ went in about an hour, by the way. I’ll be up all night making more.”

“Uh-huh, and you’ll do it with a song in your heart,” said Holly, kissing the crease at the centre of her wife’s forehead. “Al grumbles, but this is her favorite time of year. She runs the bakery here in town, and makes all the desserts for the diner. Best pie you’ve ever tasted, guaranteed.” Holly beamed. “Why don’t you guys go grab a coffee and some pie— or, um, tea, if that’s more your thing— and I’ll meet you there in an hour, once I’ve had a chance to check out this beauty?” She made to slap the hood of the Bentley, caught the sharp edge of Crowley’s glare, and switched to a thumbs up instead. 

Aziraphale could tell that Crowley was about to object, but he was rather hungry, and really, the car could look after itself. “We can’t thank you enough,” he jumped in, squeezing Crowley’s arm. “Really, we’d have been scuppered without you. Toodle— er, see you around!” He hopped out of the car, and set off towards the diner knowing Crowley would follow him. A moment later, he felt a mildly demonic, moderately grumpy aura to his left. 

“If she has the first idea what to do with a mint condition 1920s Bentley that runs on demonic will, I’ll eat my watch,” muttered Crowley. He then sneezed three times in quick succession, and groaned.

“Well, I’m sure she’ll manage, cars are all basically the same, aren’t they,” said Aziraphale reasonably, and Crowley’s sputtered protests kept him nicely distracted throughout the process of entering the diner, finding a booth (a booth! Vinyl, nonetheless!) and ordering. The place was called Red Robin’s, and it was doing a roaring trade already. By the time Crowley stopped ranting and took a look around, Aziraphale was halfway through his slice of pecan pie (rich, chewy, with the perfect amount of salt) and angling for another hot chocolate.

“...it’s like, it’s like comparing War and Peace to Ready Player One,” Crowley snapped. In the past ten minutes, his voice had grown rather nasal. “Yes, they’re both novels, but—” he took a sip of his coffee, then noticed it. “When did this get here?”

“I ordered you a cup of joe,” Aziraphale said, pleased. 

“It’s good.” He frowned into his mug. “Look, angel, I need to tell you something. I think—” 

The waiter, a cheerful young lad with a name tag that read _Rudy,_ came back to ask if he could get them anything else. Aziraphale ordered another slice of pie, apple this time, and a refill. Crowley jerked his head no, so Aziraphale made small talk for a bit, just to annoy him. Really, he was being appallingly rude. He glared at the boy until he left, then leaned forward.

“I don’t like this place,” he muttered, low and conspiratorial. 

Aziraphale tutted. “I think it’s charming,” he said. “And very tasteful! I’ve been in American-style diners back home, of course, but this one doesn’t have even a _single_ life-size statue of Elvis—”

“Not the diner, the _town_ ,” Crowley hissed, and he lowered his glasses to turn a yellow glare on Aziraphale. His eyes were oddly red-rimmed. “Aziraphale, there’s something very wrong, here.”

Aziraphale frowned. He listened to his angelic insides, to see if he could detect anything amiss. Not so much as a twinge. “Wrong? Wrong how?”

“Just… wrong. I mean, look around! It’s like something off a card.”

“That’s exactly what I thought earlier! Isn’t it darling?”

“No. No, it’s not _darling_ . It’s…it feels...” Crowley ran a hand through his hair, mouth working as if he was trying to excavate the right word from behind his wisdom teeth. _“Weird_.” 

Rudy returned with the pie, and Aziraphale tucked in enthusiastically. The apple was just as good as the pecan, and served warm, with vanilla ice cream and a dash of cinnamon. As he ate, a thought occurred. 

“I think I know what the problem is,” he said gesturing with his fork. 

Crowley’s expression was wary as he wiped his nose on a napkin. “You do.”

“Yes, it—”

“I don’t think you do.”

“When we drove in,” said Aziraphale, “I had such a sense of _love_ from this place. Not like Tadfield,” he added hurriedly, when Crowley looked as though he was going to bolt, “it’s not coming from one person. It’s from the residents, I think. With Christmas just around the corner, all the affection and good feeling within this place will most certainly have intensified, and it could be that your demonic essence—”

“—can we not use the word ‘essence’, please—”

“-- is having a bad reaction to all the love concentrated here.”

Crowley eyed him skeptically. “A bad reaction.”

“Yes. Think of it as… seasonal allergies.”

“Seasonal—” Crowley groaned, both at the pun and at Aziraphale’s smug grin. “And I’m not sneezing my head off at the Christmas spirit in London because…?”

Aziraphale snorted. “Crowley, it’s London.”

“Yeah, okay, point.” Crowley’s leg jiggled up and down, rattling the table. “Except, hang on, no. No, because the Bentley broke down. The Bentley _never_ breaks down. The Bentley got me up to Oxfordshire _on fire_ —” 

“You said yourself the Bentley runs on demonic will,” Aziraphale pointed out. The more he thought about it, the more he warmed to his hypothesis. “Perhaps it’s being affected in a similar fashion.”

“ _She’s_ being affected, and come off it. I don’t care how much these people love their hometown, they couldn’t affect us from that far off. Something _isn’t right_.” He drummed his fingers on the table in agitation. Behind him, Aziraphale saw a small child giggle at the mustache of hot chocolate on his father’s lip, only to shriek with laughter and delight when the man swooped in for a kiss on the cheek. Warmth unfurled in his chest. 

“There’s intent here, angel, I’m certain of it. Witchcraft, or something from our former employers, or—”

“ _Crowley._ ” Aziraphale set aside his fork, and looked him in the eye. Suddenly he was fed up. “There is nothing amiss. The only thing that’s going on is that you hate Christmas.”

Crowley scoffed. “That is. A _gross_ simplification, but alright, my personal feelings about the season are—”  
“You’ve always been odd about the holidays, on the rare occasion you don’t sleep through them—”

“Yeah, ‘coz being a demon at Christmas is like working bloody retail, it’s all hands on deck to try and counteract your lot’s _peace on earth and goodwill to all men_ shite. I only _just_ managed to offset it with Black Friday—”

“Of _course_ that was you, why am I not surprised—” 

“—and then there’s all the God-bothering, which isn’t even appropriate—”

“Oh, not this again—”

“You _know_ Jesus was born in March, you met the man, he was a textbook Aries—” 

“Uh, guys?”

Crowley’s mouth snapped shut. It was Rudy, holding a cordless phone and looking a little sheepish.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but— there’s a call, for you, from Holly? The mechanic? It’s about your car.”

Crowley snatched the phone from his hand and stabbed the speaker button. “Yep?”

“Hi guys, so… bad news, I can’t immediately see what’s wrong.”

Crowley rolled his eyes and mouthed _“shocking”_ into the air. Aziraphale kicked him under the table.

“I’m gonna have to go piece by piece, get real methodical about it, and that might take a while.”

“It’s alright, dear,” Aziraphale leaned over, raising his voice slightly so she could be sure to hear him. “It’s Aziraphale, by the way. Hello. How long is a while?”

There was a fuzz of static as Holly sighed. “Well once I find the faulty part, we’ve gotta hope it’s something easily replaced. The innards of antique British cars are hard to come by at the best of times, but at Christmas? I have a few dealers I can contact, but it’ll cost—”

“Don’t worry about the cost,” said Crowley, bluntly. “Not an issue.”

“Just do your best, of course,” said Aziraphale, “but… the timeframe? Do you have an estimate?”

A low hum. “A week.”

“A week?!” sputtered Crowley.

“At least.” She sounded fairly unapologetic, which only seemed to infuriate Crowley more. “I called Noel, and he said there’s a room for you at the Mistletoe Inn. You’d best head over there, get settled.”

“But— you can’t—” Crowley sputtered.

“I’m sorry guys, but hey— there are worse places to be stuck, right?”

The line clicked. Holly had hung up, apparently having learned phone etiquette from American television. Crowley stared at the receiver with an expression of pure horror until Rudy shuffled away.

Aziraphale did a number of very quick, very biased calculations in his head, and came to the conclusion that regardless of Crowley’s skittishness, a week in a picturesque town with excellent victuals and accommodating locals was a capital idea. Perhaps, with effort, he could even bring Crowley around to the idea of Christmas— after all, they were _retired._ Surely they had earned a bit of peace, quiet, and figgy pudding?

“Well,” he said cheerily, “I shall get my next cocoa to go, dear. It’s time to agitate the gravel!” 

He beamed. Crowley groaned.

And unknown to both of them, forces beyond the ken of angel or demon began to tighten their grip.

**Author's Note:**

> * blisteringly awful Hallmark movies, obv.


End file.
